EVERY THING S

__Weeping willow won’t you wallow louder
____Werewolf, Coco Rosie










via voodoo magic


but it's not just dreams. it's stories too. and days. it's moments. it's life. it's everything. i'm constantly thinking how'd i get here? __where am i? then noticing someone besides me on the bus.train.lunch table who is this person? only to learn they're a stranger.


*___*___*

IF LIFE WERE A GAME, POSSIBLE AMENDMENTS THAT WOULD MAKE IT BETTER, A LIST:

(1) timeout.
i'm outta breath. i'm bored. i'm tired, i'm over it, i just need to sit here a minute.

(2) phone a friend.
dear boss. dear teacher. dear massive huge unbelievably massive f*ckup, just wait a tick: i need to call my mom.

(3) mid-season trades.
this team sucks. i've done this team for 30-40 years now. i'd like to swap. i think i'll be gay for the rest. or straight. or female. or white. or an explorer. or a street-soul-jazz-busker.

(4) referees.
god: you're alright. best we have anyway. but it's not cool withholding the score till the end. i want someone here now. watching every play. blowing on the whistle and being all 'Yo. Dude, you stole that. not cool. hand it back'. or 'Bitch please, i heard you gossiping - you did start the rumour, you're crap. you lose 40 brownie points. alright, everyone listen up: this loser over here started the rumour. it's not true. Q didn't say that. you can all stop hating him now'. and everyone could be all like 'sweet. thanks ref.'

(5) fairies.
if you don't think it's cool for semi-magical little beings that float and sparkle to exist you're... not cool.

(6) need a hug cards.
i need a hug. it'll be like the little thing on the post-box. you kinda just hold it up like a yellow card in soccer. and whoever next passes you stops. looks at you... oh. you need a hug. you show them your sad face and nod. they hug you. sincerely. and then walk away. if you need another you hold your card up again. if you abuse your rights people call you a hug-junkie and you're no worse off than you are now - we're all hug junkies.

(7) fluorescent lights stop existing.
aesthetics are important.

(8) safety zones.
a shack. hut. red brick edifice. nothing fancy. but with comfortable quilts and a heater and a fridge with some basic necessities. a shower. and you could just... you know, take a time out from your life of starvation and genocide and relentless text messages and twitpics and just go sit on the quilt in the hut. take a breath. and then go back to watching your family fall apart and your brethren be massacred and remember that your dad never comes home from work because that's what it is.


*___*___*

MORE POTENTIAL NAMES FOR THE CATS I WANT BUT CAN'T HAVE BECAUSE I'M ALLERGIC, A LIST:

(1) Leopold & Wolfgang __(if you spot the reference i'll think you're epic intelligent)

(2) JS & CPE __(same pattern as above)

(3) Wilhelm & Reginald (no pattern)

(4) Phat & So?

(5) Stephen Daedalus & Leopold Bloom (but i'd probably just call them Daedalus & Bloom)

(6) Callamity & Jane (in case there's one boy one and one girl one)


*___*___*

i don't know what to write about. still. i see things in my head, but... just in collage. in kaleidoscope. i'm seeing...

skinny girls. in dresses. in boots and scarves. by the beach and walking down streets. blondes and brunettes. i see the protuberances of their vertebrae. i see my GF shaking her head at me and saying 'i hate your mythical future wife that bitch'. i see daffodils. lots of skimpy white flowers that are flimsy the way models are. bundles of angles and conjunction points. i see things in black and white. i see little kids with raspberry icecream cones dripping down their chins. i think of how giddy my grandma was last week at her 60th wedding anniversary. i think of how many lies you must tell when you're married to someone for 60 years. but that doesn't scare me soo much. i'm actually terrified by how many truths you must reveal to someone in 60 years. and i see, in a quiet corner someone with a disability. i see in every quiet corner a person with a disability. half as many limbs and life still moves just as fast. something about that bothers me. though my sister seems just fine when i speak to her. she tells me if i can't get a cat i should get a dog. why do you want a pet all of a sudden anyway? because of 4am i say. huh? because of all those hours that exist between midnight and sunrise when i sit at my white desk and read and take notes and highlight and stare off into space. and nothing moves. and i get tired of trying to pick music and so just sit in silence (or listen to my heater purr but not actually warm) and watch the shadows quiver in fear as they slowly dissipate back into the surfaces they came from. maybe like water soaking back beneath the surface it sprang from. maybe. maybemaybe. __that's why? are you lonely, is that what you're trying to say? no. not exactly. just sometimes i forget i'm alive. peer pressure maybe (maybemaybe) you spend soo many hours just you and inanimate objects and the quiet hours, the inbetween hours, the phantom hours (and your dreams wait for you jealously in your bed and scowl at you from the sheets thinking damn you gimme a white screen or pull down the black shades on the insides of your eyelids so i can project myself onto) and i just think if i had a cat sitting on my desk purring i'd feel more alive. or at least less bullied by everything that lives in my room without a heartbeat. (even the cold night has a heartbeat).
"i'll get you a fish" (this is my GF, my GF says this).
i, of course, obsessed with naming things, think what i might call the fish [Geronimo __Galileo__ Magellan __Moby __Captain Ahab __Sharkweek __Spartacus __Lil Dwayne] (then i hear my sister telling me, on the phone, if you get a dog i think you should name it Tokyo. but only if it's a girl.
- why can't you name a boy Tokyo? it works just fine for both.
- no. just girl.
- no. both.
- no. you can't use my name if you're going to be like that.
- like what?
- like your father.
- like your father?
- he's more like you. inflexible.
- i think you're being inflexible right now.
- and that's why you're like your father. you don't understand.
- don't understand what?
- that proves my point.
- [i'm so confused]

i see quiet music. this young man who was busking in the cold the other night. him and a fluorescent scarlet electric guitar that played a continuous melody. it felt lonely. sans melody. sans rhythm. sans bass. sounded to me like a survivor. like the final element of a dream everyone else had walked off on. or given up on. or transferred to a different department. or moved to a better neighborhood. or was always smarter than you and got a scholarship to go to a better school and your mom is epic supportive when she says 'one good friend you had. and you couldn't even keep them could you? couldn't keep up could you?' and so the guitar cries. only it doesn't sound like a cry. more like...
feet.
walking.
not thinking.
not... moping.
beyond that stuff.
just:
feet.
walking.
just that.

i see LA. i've been seeing it a lot nowadays. i always miss everything i remember long enough to miss, but... lately. palm trees and highways. i miss writing about it. LA is the sort of city you want to write novels about. like Shanghai. and Haifa. not Gold Coast. Gold Coast is the sort of city you want to dream your way out of. the sort of city you sit at coffee shops and close your eyes fantasizing about Paris and Berlin.
____and then there's a skinny girl, and it's windy and her hair's everywhere. and a guy who used recreational drugs as a teenager but grew up just fine, see, it's not the end of the world. i see conversations between lovers and friends and between stranger-dogs in the street who sniff and smile at each other in dog language while their owners yapyap about whatever it is dog-walkers yapyap about.

3:26am.
hello.

closest thing to something alive in this room is the lamp.

i hate the sound of taptaptaping when i type.
it reminds me of the Raven (suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door).

then silence again.

and in the dark corner, next to my disabled sister a new sentence waits to form itself. seeping out of a surface like a shadow. like pitch black water after sundown when the beaches turn to tar that smell of the salt of one million dinosaurs a million years dead whose bones have evaporated into the sky and now we breathe it in like ghosts of once-were-triceratops. no wonder my head feels soo heavy.

where am i?

how'd i get here?

...